


A Sleeve Unravelled

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Of neither Sea, nor Shore, nor Air, nor Fire [5]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Comfort, Daemon Feels, Daemon Touching, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Established Relationship, Exhaustion, Idiots in Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:35:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23658472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: With all the stresses of suddenly being made regent weighing on him, Arthur hasn't been looking after himself, but then, what are manservants for?
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Of neither Sea, nor Shore, nor Air, nor Fire [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1552132
Comments: 13
Kudos: 439
Collections: Scruffy Pendragon Fest





	A Sleeve Unravelled

**Author's Note:**

> Arthur—Melisande, clouded leopard  
> Merlin—Mysaria, banded mongoose

"Did you see the way the Countess's dæmon was flirting? I mean, that woman acts the stone wall, but the way he was preening and strutting? No wonder he settled as a peacock." Mysaria tucks herself around the nape of Merlin's neck, tail curled beneath his chin.

Merlin chortles as he balances the tray on his left arm and opens the door with the right, shouldering the door open before he loses balance and sends the whole thing to the floor. Again. He's only dropped it twice this week, and they have a bet with Gwaine that he won't do it five times before the week's out. "Well, I hope for her sake that the Count never shows up in court, or if he does, I hope he brings a good sword, as many duels as he'll be—" He cuts off with a sharp hiss of pain as she pinches his ear between her sharp teeth, but then he goes still when he follows her pointed stare into the next room.

Arthur is asleep in his chair before the hearth.

Merlin exhales a slow breath, takes a careful step forward, and sets the tray down on the table as gently as he can, as though it might well explode if there's even the smallest rattle. As he carefully starts laying out supper, Mysaria climbs down his back and leg to the floor, and she slinks along the edges of the room towards the prince regent.

Arthur has one elbow on the arm, his face pressed into his hand, just barely staying upright. He's still dressed, though his tunic is half unlaced, vest hanging open. Only one of his boots are off. Beneath the chair, just between his heels, Melisande is curled up into a ball of mottled fur. Despite her notorious light sleeping, her ears don't so much as twitch as Mysaria edges closer, drawing at the air around two of them.

As it is with everyone and their dæmon, there's at least one commonality of scent. She and Merlin both have a muddy smell, like deep earth after hard rain. Gaius and Jocosa share a scent of parchment. It's more than that, however. Scent works differently for her—it coils up in her skull and prickles down her spine and even tingles in the tip of her tail. Merlin tries to understand when she tells him, but humans don't experience it the same way. Not even humans like Merlin.

And Arthur, Arthur smells like cedar and snow and the cold wind that blows through high mountain passes, what she thinks of as _blue_ weather. He smells like responsibility. Melisande shares his clean blue snow-smell, but the rest of her scent is her own—animal musk and fresh-chipped granite and red meat.

Now, however, their scent is diminished and faded. Mysaria edges closer. Arthur's scent in particular is different, laced with a sickly-sweetness that she knows to mean he's on the edge of becoming ill, a sour red note in the blue. As concerned as she is for him, she isn't surprised. He hasn't been taking care of himself no matter how Merlin coaxes, and not only in body. Melisande's luxurious mottled fur has lost its sleek lustre, and the lines of her bones are too visible underneath her pelt, her ochre eyes listless.

Mysaria's ears twitch, and she looks up as Merlin approaches Arthur's chair slowly, holding up a blanket before him. He approaches the sleeping prince regent with all the care one would give a sleeping bear that might well rouse in terrific temper at any moment. Not that this particular bear would be up for much of a fight. She can feel his indecision, fizzing in her belly. He knows if Arthur stays asleep in his chair like that, he'll be sore as anything, yet if he wakes Arthur, there's no saying when the man will go back to sleep again. The bruise-coloured shadows beneath his eyes are proof of it.

Slowly, slowly, he edges nearer and leans in to drape the blanket over Arthur's form. Arthur's lashes flicker, but he doesn't stir. The pace of that so-fragile heart stays slow and steady.

Merlin eases back from Arthur's chair slowly, then turns his gaze down to her, the smell of his concern thick and syrupy in her nose. He taps the toe of his boot lightly against the rushes, but she doesn't move to climb up his leg, lying on her belly with paws tucked up under her. He bends down and runs a rough fingertip over her head in silent understanding, going to attend to his last few duties before bed. Her fur prickles, and her body feels bright and golden as she always does when he does magic, ensuring that only silence reigns in the chamber.

Lowering her chin to her forepaws, Mysaria watches Arthur sleep, breathing in his muddled scent and wishing with everything in her that he would let them help, if only just to hear him speak of it, instead of letting it eat away at him and fester inside. A part of her wants to sidle between his feet and curl up beside Melisande, share her warmth, groom the ruffled spots in her fur. The longing settles down heavy and solid in her belly, swallowing a stone she thought she had been rid of months ago.

Arthur wakes without warning, and she scrabbles backwards a few inches on startled reflex as his body jerks in the chair with a ragged gasp, eyes wide. Melisande hisses abruptly, twisting to her feet with hackles bristling, but then her ears pin back flat to her skull, sidling between his feet and springing up into his lap. Arthur wraps both arms around his dæmon, clutching her tightly to him. It's only then he takes notice of the blanket draped over his lap and arms, his brow furrowed in confusion as he looks over himself, bewildered gaze coming to rest on Mysaria at last. "Sari?" he murmurs, voice thick and rough with sleep. "What…?" He turns in the chair, craning his neck around until he sees Merlin, frozen at the bedside in the midst of turning down the covers, sheets still in hand. "How long have you been here?"

Merlin casts a glance towards the table and the abandoned tray there. "Long enough for your dinner to be cold."

"Merlin…" Arthur scrubs a hand over his face and casts the blanket off. "You should've woken me."

"No, I shouldn't have." Abandoning the bedsheets, Merlin walks up behind the chair and curls both hands over the fur-draped chairback. He isn't quite touching Arthur's shoulders, not yet—approach with caution, handle with care. "Arthur, you're barely sleeping. You aren't eating. I know things have been difficult—"

"No, you _don't!"_ Arthur snaps, voice rising, but his anger dissipates as quickly as it flares, shoulders dropping. He draws in a deep breath and lets it out in a sigh so deep his entire body seems to move with it. "Merlin…you don't."

Mysaria sidles closer to the chair, slipping between the legs to climb up Merlin's side, carefully making her way down his arm and onto the chair, digging her claws into the soft furs for balance. "We would if you would tell us," she informs him, staring up into his face. She doesn't see terribly well at distance, but up close, she can see the stubble on his jaw is a darker gold than his hair, almost brown, like his brows and lashes. She turns her gaze down to Melisande. "You need only talk to us."

Merlin slides one hand along the chairback, just close enough that he can brush the backs of his fingers against the nape of Arthur's neck. "I'm here," he murmurs, bowing closer, lips ghosting over the top of his hair.

Another deep, shuddering breath. "I know. I know you are," Arthur replies, barely more than a whisper. He tilts his head back against Merlin's hands, eyes closed. "Merlin, I…there's just…I can't. Not yet."

"I know."

Mysaria leans forward to touch her nose against Melisande's. As she leans back, keeping precarious balance on the arm of the chair, a sudden flush of daring takes her. Careful, so careful, she stretches her neck out and licks over the backs of Arthur's rough, scarred knuckles, tasting the salt of his skin.

 _"Mysaria,"_ Arthur gasps aloud, his mouth falling open at the sudden, unexpected sensation of _touch,_ blazing and golden and vibrant, like the sun and stars rolled up into one.

"I'm here," he repeats, leaning closer to rest his cheek against the prince regent's hair. "Come on." Sliding his hands down the chairback, he curls his fingers under Arthur's arms and tugs, coaxing him up out of the chair. "Sleep here and you'll be sore for days. Come on."

Stumbling across the chambers, Arthur sits down heavily on the edge of the bed, still looking faintly dazed as Merlin removes his vest and tunic, then kneels to take off his other boot and socks. He shivers faintly at the chill in the air, sliding beneath the bedcovers in haste. There is a large square cushion on the end of the bed for Melisande to sleep on, but when she leaps onto the bed, she bypasses it to instead press herself into Arthur's arms, tucking herself into the curve of his body.

"Goodnight, sire," Merlin murmurs, but before he steps away, a sword-callused hand grips his wrist with surprising strength.

"Stay." Arthur rubs his thumb over the inside of Merlin's wrist, unwontedly gentle. "Please."

Mysaria is staring holes into Merlin from the foot of the bed, trying to will him to stay, pushing her intent along their bond with all the force she can muster. Her attention is so focused on him she doesn't quite manage to notice Melisande rise and stalk towards her, and a startled squeak escapes her as the other dæmon makes a neat leap, pinning her to the bedcovers with her oversized paws. She doesn't try to squirm away the way she usually does when they play such games, letting herself be captured as Melisande lowers her head, closing gentle jaws around the scruff of her neck, careful of her wicked eyeteeth.

The leopardess drags her up the bed, drops her beside Arthur, and lays back down between the two, draping one forepaw over Mysaria's back to keep her in place, warm and soft.

Mysaria hates how well she can feel the cage of Melisande's ribs when she never could before. Still, she snuggles into drowning-soft belly fur, tucking her nose in and breathing in the scent of Melisande-Arthur-Melisande. Vaguely, she can hear the soft sounds of Merlin shedding his clothes, leaving them piled on the floor; the bed shifts as he crawls up to lay behind Arthur, curling himself against the other man's back.

Merlin is just the slightest bit taller than Arthur. Not a lot, but enough for him to curve his frame around the prince regent's with ease, aligning their limbs from toe to chin. He folds one arm beneath the pillow, gently drawing his fingers through Arthur's hair, winding the longer strands around his fingertips. "I think I like this," he murmurs, voice so low it's more vibration than sound. "It suits you."

Arthur tilts his head back into Merlin's touch, eyes closing. "Does it?"

"Yeah. You need a bath, and to reacquaint yourself with a comb, but yeah." He presses a kiss to the nape of Arthur's neck, silken hair tickling his face as he breathes in.

Lying as back-to-chest as they are, Merlin cannot see Arthur smile, but Mysaria can feel the low, rhythmic rumble of Melisande purring.

Much better.


End file.
